


Sound of Silence

by DesireeArmfeldt



Series: Sounds of Silence [1]
Category: due South
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Challenge Response, Disability, Gen, POV Third Person Limited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:17:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2243790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DesireeArmfeldt/pseuds/DesireeArmfeldt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fraser's father tries to cheer him up, with predicable results.  Dief is more helpful.  (Fork-in-the-road AU, set pre-canon.  Stands alone, but I'm hoping it will become the first of a series set in this universe.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sound of Silence

**Author's Note:**

> Also fulfills the "loss of hearing" square of my [](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://hc-bingo.livejournal.com/)**hc_bingo** card.

  
“I don’t see what everyone’s making such a fuss about,” says Fraser’s father.  “It’s not as though it’s a serious injury.  A temporary inconvenience, that’s all.”  


“I’m afraid it’s worse than that,” says Fraser, in what he hopes is a normal speaking voice.  He still hasn’t gotten used to the way his own voice sounds the-same-but-different inside his head, and he hasn’t figured out how to judge what he sounds like to other people.

“I’m not saying it’s not a nuisance.  But burst eardrums heal, son.  You remember your grandmother’s—”

“The doctor said the hearing loss is permanent,” Fraser interrupts.  Probably too loudly, to judge by his father’s irritated frown.  Though that might simply be due to being contradicted.

“Oh, well, doctors, it’s their job to look on the dark side,” says his father with a dismissive wave of his hand.  Actually, all Fraser catches for certain is _oh_ and _doctor_ and _job_ and _dark side,_ but he can confidently deduce the rest from context.  He finds his father’s speech easier to decode than anyone else who’s spoken to him since the accident, probably because of the familiar vocabulary and speech patterns.  Or perhaps because he can recognize, if not predict, his father’s particular brand of inexplicable thinking.

But Bob turns his face away as he starts to say something else, so Fraser can’t see to read his lips any more.

“Dad, could you face me, please?  I can’t tell what you’re saying.”

His father shoots him a look that might be embarrassment or irritation or discomfort, or perhaps some combination; Fraser’s not sure.  His mouth is still partially obscured, so Fraser misses much of what he says next, picking out only: . . . _can’t expect. . ._

“Sorry, could you repeat that?”

“I said, you’d better learn to read lips while you’re—”  Another vague, dismissive gesture; possibly Fraser’s missed the end of the sentence, but more likely, his father didn’t actually finish it.  “You can’t expect the world to accommodate you.  Keep up or be left behind, that’s life.”

“I do know how to read lips,” Fraser retorts, wondering if he sounds as childish in reality as he does in his own head.  He hates how his father can strip him of his adulthood with a few minutes’ conversation.  “I’ve been practicing.  It’s not too hard.  That is, if I can see your mouth. _”_

His father suddenly brings his hands together in a brisk clap and fires off a rapid string of words that Fraser can’t make heads or tails of until he picks out the shape of _pickled peppers._

“Peter Piper picked a peck of pickled peppers, a peck of pickled peppers did Peter Piper pick. . .” he rattles off sourly.  

His father tilts his head and looks at him appraisingly.  Fraser feels his cheeks heat but refuses to drop his gaze.  He’s cheating and his father can probably see it in his face, but this is a survival skill for him now, and the only rule of survival is _do whatever is necessary._

Bob reels off another string of words, facing him square-on, lips clearly visible, but he’s speaking too fast and it’s almost certainly nonsense—maybe some tongue-twister Fraser knows, but knowing his father, he’s probably twisted it somehow, mixed up the words to catch Fraser guessing, or possibly he’s not even speaking English—

“All right, knock it off!  You’ve made your point!” Fraser snaps.  

Bob frowns, then takes a hasty step back as Diefenbaker jumps up from the hearth rug where he’s been lying to stand protectively between Fraser and his father.  Dief’s hackles are raised; no doubt he’s growling.  He won’t actually lunge without direct instructions from Fraser, though; he would only do that in response to an immediate physical threat.

Fraser’s father is smart enough not to make any sudden movements.  He does shout—not at Dief, but at Fraser.  Something about _the dratted animal,_ Fraser can’t decipher all the words, but the gist is obvious enough.  He’s tempted to reply that Dief makes his own choices and Bob had better negotiate with him directly, but that’s not strictly true.  Dief does, in fact, defer to Fraser when it comes to Fraser’s interactions with other humans.  Usually.  In any event, it would be counterproductive of Fraser to refuse to intervene.  His father is, after all, only trying to help, in his singularly irritating way.

“Dief.  Enough.”

Both Bob and Diefenbaker startle at the order.  Too loud again, Fraser presumes.  Damn it.

Dief twists his head to look up at Fraser for long enough to make the point that he doesn’t _have_ to follow orders if he doesn’t choose to.  Then he turns three times in a tight circle and plops himself down on Fraser’s booted toes with his eyes closed but his ears cocked.  Alert for any sign that Fraser needs him.  Fraser swallows against the sudden tightness in his throat.

He looks up at his father in time to catch him saying something about _temper._ Fraser doesn’t know if the complaint is about Dief’s manners or his own, but he isn’t in the mood to apologize for either.

On the other hand, he’s currently a guest under his father’s roof.  Even if his father isn’t actually in residence himself at the moment.

“He gets defensive sometimes,” Fraser mutters, which isn’t a very good apology and not fair to Dief, either.  At least Dief’s limited grasp of the subtleties of human interaction will probably keep him from understanding or caring about how Fraser’s taking his name in vain.

His father gives him a look like Fraser’s six years old and failing to strike fire from flint.  Then his face and body language shift back out of _irritated_ into _hearty_ as he faces Fraser straight-on again and leans in toward him.  (But that means he’s looking _up_ at Fraser, who has been a few inches taller since he reached his full growth.  Fraser isn’t proud of the stab of petty pleasure that gives him.)

“Keep your chin up, Son,” Bob says with exaggerated lip movements that Fraser finds both helpful and profoundly annoying.  “You’ll be all right.  I’ll speak to your superiors.  Ridiculous to rush to discharge you over such a little thing.  You’d think they were in a hurry to get rid of you.”

Fraser’s face gets hot again, because yes, it was a quicker decision than he had expected, though not an unreasonable one, and now the shame of wondering if, in fact, his superiors will be glad to see the back of him, is doubled when he imagines them changing their decision simply because he’s his father’s son.

“They’ve seen the medical reports,” he replies, hoping he at least sounds calmer than he feels.

His father shakes his head.

“Nothing wrong with you that a few weeks won’t set right.”

“No.  They’re right,” says Fraser as firmly as he can, as if he hasn’t been clinging to that forlorn hope for weeks, in spite of the facts.  As if some part of him isn’t still clinging.  “I’m unfit for active duty, and I always will be.”  

His father’s mouth purses as he looks Fraser over.  Instead of meeting Fraser’s eyes again, he turns away, paces over to the window and looks out.  He’s never been one to concede an argument, except by walking away from it.  

Fraser considers asking whether his father is talking, but doesn’t. His shoulders wouldn’t look like that if he were pontificating, and anyway, it’s not as though it would be anything Fraser particularly needs to hear.

Diefenbaker’s muzzle pushes into Fraser’s hand.  Cold nose; warm breath.  Soft-rough-wet tongue licks his hand.  Apparently the wolf has decided Fraser needs comforting now.

He sinks his fingers into the thick fur behind Dief’s ears.  Thanking and reassuring him both at once.

“I’ll be fine, Dad.  I’ll find. . .something else to do.”  He’s never imagined wanting any career other than the RCMP.  He’s never had to.

His father turns to face him.

“If you want desk duty, I’m sure I could arrange it,” he offers slowly, still over-enunciating.

Fraser shakes his head.

“I’d rather not.”

“No,” agrees his father.  “I didn’t think so.”  

Without the tone of voice to give him a clue, Fraser can’t decipher the subtext.  Disappointment? Approval?  His father’s face is closed off, his body language ambiguous.  The only signal Fraser can read clearly is _discomfort_ , and honestly, his father’s never been comfortable around him.

Dief’s head comes up sharply.  Fraser realizes that he’s clenched his fingers around a handful of fur, probably pulling painfully.  He lets go and strokes the wolf’s neck in silent apology, and Dief settles back down against Fraser’s knee.

“The pension won’t be much, I’m afraid,” says Bob.  “Only three years’ service.”

“It  wasn’t in the line of duty.”  Fraser has already admitted as much on the official report, that being the only honest thing to do.  “I was on my own time.”

“Still.  They can do that much for you. You served honorably, in a risky posting.  Accidents can happen to anyone.”  But Fraser knows his father doesn’t believe that.  Accidents happen to the weak, the foolish, the unprepared, the city-bred.  Not to Frasers.

“I’ll speak to someone.”  His father lays a hand on Fraser’s shoulder, just for a moment.  

Fraser shuts his eyes and swallows down all the words he can’t afford to say.  A small disability pension would mean the difference between having a little money set by for emergencies and having nothing at all.  Pride and anger are luxuries he can’t afford.  As for honesty. . .he’ll die before he gives that up, he won’t lie for his own benefit or any other reason, but he isn’t obliged to give the details his father hasn’t cared enough to ask for.

A firm pat on his back.  Fraser opens his eyes to see his father heading for the door, pulling on his coat as he goes.  Had he said something more?  Is he speaking now?  If so, Fraser’s missed it.

“Bye, Dad.”  It’s the appropriate response to his father’s departure, if nothing else.  Common politeness; a useful social tool.  He expects he’ll find it even more useful in the future, to help him navigate situations in which critical information is inaccessible to him.  _A smile and a polite word open many doors,_ as his grandmother used to tell him.

He feels Diefenbaker pawing at his boot.  When he looks down, Dief meets his eyes, then turns his head to the window, whose curtains are open to let in the sun for as long as it lasts.  A moment or two later, Bob’s dogs and then his sled flash past.  He must have staked them where they stood rather than going to the bother of unharnessing them only to reharness them an hour later.  

“He needed to hurry if he wanted to get back to Whitehorse before dark,” Fraser explains to Dief.  It’s several hours’ sledding each way.  A less eccentric father probably would have at least stayed the night, Fraser supposes.  A less eccentric son might have expected him to. Or at least felt more disappointment than relief to see him go.

Dief lays his chin on Fraser’s knee; Fraser can feel the wolf’s throat vibrate with what is probably a whine.

“It’s all right,” Fraser tells him, sinking his fingers in Dief’s fur.  “We’ll be all right.”

Dief, of course, has no need of a job or money or human society.  Dief, undamaged and fully recovered from his dip in the frigid Sound, is perfectly capable of surviving in the wilderness on his own.  It’s what Nature designed him for.  But Dief, for reasons he hasn’t seen fit to share with Fraser, appears disinclined to return to the wild.  Fraser has suggested it to him several times since being discharged from the hospital, but Dief’s only response has been a disdainful flick of the tail or an inquiry about lunch.  It isn’t right or fair, but Fraser can’t bring himself to _drive_ the wolf away for his own good.  Anyway, Dief has as much right to make his own decisions as the next man.

“I’ll find something to do,” Fraser repeats the assurance he gave his father.  Dief licks his free hand, then noses it until Fraser takes the hint and scratches him behind the ears.

There are a variety of jobs he’s surely qualified to perform, even without the ability to hear.  He’s a quick and accurate typist, for example, fluent in two official languages, with a working knowledge of several others.  He’s a bit of a handyman and a quick study; it wouldn’t be difficult to learn to be an auto mechanic or an electrician.

But those are city jobs, or town jobs at any rate.  And though living in a town would be the logical, sensible thing to do, Fraser already knows he doesn’t intend to leave the land.  His experiences in Regina and Moose Jaw were enough to make it crystal clear where he belongs.  Might as well ask a wolf to work in an office.  

He can’t stay in his father’s cabin forever, though.  Well, he _can._ Blood is thicker than water, after all.  His father may not have much use for him, but he wouldn’t let his son go homeless or hungry, not while Bob had a penny or a stick of wood to call his own.  But Fraser is too much his father’s son to live beholden to anyone, even his own father, if he has any other option.  He’s young and strong and skilled, and four of his five senses are in excellent working order.  He’ll make his own way.

And he won’t do it by sitting around woolgathering, that’s for certain.  He’s wasted enough of the day as it is.

“How about some supper?” he says jovially, giving Dief’s head a last rub. Dief’s tail wags eagerly as the wolf leaps to his feet.

Fraser gets up too, reflexively straightening his tunic—and is suddenly, violently struck by the absurdity of wearing the infernal thing.  It’s still his; he’s entitled, for a few days longer.   But it’s pointless and pathetic and it’s not as though the uniform were convenient or comfortable, the sort of clothing any sane person would wear by _choice._

Dief’s paws land on Fraser’s chest, forcing him to balance against the wolf’s weight.  The wolf’s mouth opens in a series of inaudible barks.  Fraser’s throat hurts; he must be making some kind of noise, he realizes as he sinks to his knees, pressing his hand to his mouth.  Dief slops his hot tongue across Fraser’s mouth and nose, thrusts his damp nose into Fraser’s ear, butts his head against Fraser’s until Fraser buries his hands and face in the wolf’s thick fur.  Dief holds still to let Fraser clutch him close.  His breath pants steadily, soothingly against Fraser’s neck, and gradually, Fraser’s own harsh, ragged breaths calm.

“It’s not your fault,” Fraser whispers.  

He doesn’t know whether wolves are capable of feeling guilt, though he knows they understand gratitude, and loyalty, and even duty, or at least, the concept of having a job to do and the satisfaction of having accomplished it.  He doesn’t know whether Diefenbaker befriended him out of gratitude for freeing him from that mineshaft as a pup, out of loneliness or out of sheer lupine whimsy, but he knows with rock-solid certainty that if he had been the one to fall through the ice, Dief would have pulled him out or died trying.  And he knows how he would feel himself, if Dief had been the one to lose his hearing in the course of saving Fraser’s life.  And so, although a small voice in his head still howls that _it isn’t fair_ , he rubs the wolf’s neck and flanks as he repeats the words that he himself can’t hear:

“It’s not your fault.  I don’t blame you. It was worth it.  I’d do it all again.  We’ll be all right, you’ll see.”

**Author's Note:**

>   
>  1) In this story, Fraser is an adult who has lost his hearing and is not part of Deaf culture. His experience is not meant to reflect the experience of someone born Deaf or culturally Deaf, but rather, of someone who’s used to being able to hear and then has to adapt to no longer having that ability while (at least partly by choice) associating only with hearing people.   
>    
>  2) Canonically, the incident with Dief saving Fraser in Prince Rupert’s Sound occurred “two years” before the Pilot – a fact I’d forgotten when I was writing this story. So I guess this is further AU-ified in that Dief and Fraser meet about 10 years earlier in this universe than they do in canon.   
> 


End file.
